“Joe Herring, sir. Master Sam’s assistant, sir,” answered the boy, in his quiet tones.
“Assistant! Bungs an’ barnacles! Assistant to Sam! What doin’? Loafin’ an’ a-killin’ time?”
“I beg to refer you to Master Sam, sir,” was the composed answer, although from where I watched the scene I could see that Joe was badly frightened.
“What Sam needs is suthin’ to do, more ’n a grub-devourin’ assistant,” pursued my father, sternly. “Look here; did my son lug you aboard?”
“He did, sir,” replied Joe, truthfully.
“Send him to me, then,” ordered my father.
I stepped forward at once, saluting the Captain with my usual deference. When we were at sea I had been taught to put by the fact that this was my father, bearing in mind only the immediate fact that he was my commander. Still, in my capacity as secretary to Uncle Naboth I was in a measure independent of ship’s discipline.
“What tricks are you up to now, Sam?” demanded the Captain, scowling at me.
“Father, this boy was the runaway from the Gonzales, whom Captain Marrow has been seeking so earnestly. He was so abused by the dirty Mexican that he would rather die than return to his slavery. So he threw himself on my mercy, and knowing he would surely be retaken if I left him ashore, I brought the lad with us. Don’t blame him, sir. I’ll take all the responsibility.”
The Captain stared at me a moment.